


Haunted Farm AU

by redwoodroots



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fiddleford's family, Fiddleford's family are all ghosts, Haunted Farm, Head Injury, McGucket Farm, OC McGuckets, Stan and Ford are ghost hunters, Suicide Attempt, haunted farm au, possessed tractor, you can see where this is going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 10:01:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16870912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwoodroots/pseuds/redwoodroots
Summary: Stan and Ford, intrepid (and sometimes reluctant) ghost hunters, have heard tell of a certain farm practically filled with ghosts.  Apparently almost an entire family died and returned as ghosts, leaving just one survivor...Fiddleford H. McGucket.





	Haunted Farm AU

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nour386](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nour386/gifts), [HeidiMelone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeidiMelone/gifts).



> Welcome to a brand new AU! Proving that GRAVITY FALLS WILL NEVER DIE! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!
> 
> *Ahem* 
> 
> Haunted Farm AU was created by the awesome Nour386! Stan and Ford, intrepid (and sometimes reluctant) ghost hunters, have heard tell of a certain farm practically filled with ghosts. Apparently almost an entire family died and returned as ghosts, leaving just one survivor...Fiddleford H. McGucket. 
> 
> The characters of the McGucket family were created by the talented thelastspeecher (HeidiMelone). You can find plenty more of these OC's in xier other works!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide attempt. There's a good bit of humor in here, but let's be honest, I brought the angst.

Ford pulled up to the farm and Stan looked around doubtfully.

“You _sure_ there are ghosts around here?”

“I've done my research, Stanley.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “You asked a bunch of random country guys if they had a poltergeist problem. That does not count as research.”

Ford got out of the car, and Stan reluctantly followed suit. The place wasn’t exactly at the top of Stan’s bucket list. It was a farm in the middle of nowhere, flatter than a pancake and about as interesting as dryer lint. It didn't even look like the way he thought a farm should look. There was a big brown building, a flatter sprawling white building, and a bunch of plain old dirt. Some scrubby-lookin' trees hid the horizon behind it, but they looked as boring and dusty and lifeless as everything else.

“Where's the red barn? And the little wooden fence thingie? Does this place even _have_ a cow?”

Ford was apparently deaf to rational thought. He'd gone around to the trunk and started pulling out his ghost-hunting stuff. He waved around a little black box thingie, frowning.

“Stan, you didn't spill more Pitt Cola on this one, did you?”

“No! A little. But I thought you waterproofed this one!”

“I did, but –”

“Hang on, let me guess.” He rolled his eyes and gestured to the farm. “This place has zero ghosty activity, doesn't it? Bet the McBuckets or whoever they were just realized what a dump this was and left without tellin' anybody. And if they really _did_ die, you can bet they wouldn't be hangin' around a place like...” He trailed off.

A pitchfork had picked itself up from where it was leaning on the side of the barn. It hovered in mid-air for a minute, rotating slowly, then moved smoothly up and the over the barn, vanishing on the other side.

They stared for a minute. Then Stan glanced at his brother and gave a silent groan.

“High readings, Stanley,” Ford said, grinning like the total nerdbot he was and waving the box thing. “ _Abnormally_ high readings. Get the camera, we hit the jackpot!”

 

Fiddleford pulled the weeds out of the vegetable garden and checked that the rubber hose was still in good condition. It was exhausting to run a farm alone, and his back always ached by the end of the day. Sweat dripped off his long nose.

He sat back and stretched. The garden was a lot of work, but it had been a family tradition to have fresh vegetables when they were in season, and he didn't want to break that tradition just yet.

He bundled the weeds together and left, carefully locking the door to the wire cage that encompassed the veggies. He'd have to rewire that top left corner tomorrow; the raccoons had almost worked their way through again. He headed for the barn.

“I brought the pitchfork for ya, Fiddleford!” said a cheerful voice.

“Thank you, Angie,” he said quietly. He didn't look up; there was nothing to see. At least not while the sun was still so bright.

The pitchfork swooped down next to him and twirled like a ballerina. “Look at how powerful I am! Betcha I could move the hay myself now. Want me to try? I could save you half an hour's work, you could watch that soap you like!”

“Angie,” warned a deeper voice. “I've warned you not to overexert yourself. You know what happens when we get excited.”

“You're no fun.”

“Pa, Lute's out runnin' the horses again,” came another voice. His brother Basstian. Fiddleford dumped the weeds in the compost bin and reached for the pitchfork. He could practically feel his father shaking his head.

“I've told him not to do that. One o' these day's he'll spook 'em, and then what'll we...”

A sort of chill rippled through the air, making him shiver. Fiddleford looked up.

“Pa,” came Violynn's voice. He was surprised to hear her. She liked to settle herself on the road and daydream about traveling to big cities – something she could never do, now. “Pa, we've got a problem.”

“What is it?”

“ _Company._ ”

Immediately, Fiddleford dropped the pitchfork and darted around the barn, sprinting towards the house. Last time they had company it had been that crazy Sprotts farmer and a band of townsfolk who'd tried to exorcise the farm. He could still hear Angie's screams. If they tried it again before he could stop them –

He rounded the house and came up short. It wasn't the Sprotts. Or any of the townsfolk.

A red car with white rims was parked at an angle on the front yard. Two men stood in front of it, enough alike to be twins. One of them looked like a linebacker who was a mite too fond of hot dogs and chips. He wore a white T-shirt and a bored expression, swinging a huge camera onto his shoulder like it didn't weigh anything at all. The other was far slimmer, with – Fiddleford did the slightest double-take – the first case of polydactyly he'd ever seen. He wore an argyle sweater vest almost hidden behind several pieces of highfalutin electrical equipment strapped to his chest, most of which Fiddleford recognized. His face darkened.

“This is private property,” he growled.

“Oh, we know!” the second man said cheerfully. “My name is Ford Pines, and this is my brother, Stanley. Are you aware that your farm is practically saturated with ectoplasmic energy? Have you experienced any unusual activity on the premises, such as odd lights or strange odors?”

“Or floating farm equipment?” the other man – Stanley – said dryly. “I think one of your pitchforks picked up some frequent flyer miles about two minutes ago.”

Fiddleford's mouth went dry. “No. Nothing paranormal. Now leave before I call the police.”

“The police are the ones who asked us to come out here,” the man named Ford said firmly. “Some kind of issue with a poltergeist and a local farmer. Farm tools flying! Disembodied voices! Mysterious stains appearing and disappearing on the walls!” The man's face almost shone with excitement. “We must investigate, in the name of SCIENCE!”

“And our ghost-slash-treasure-hunting show,” Stan said, gesturing to the camera. “Look, from personal experience, my brother's not going anywhere 'til he gets some ghost. If I were you, I'd just go back to milking chickens and let him do his thing.”

“You don't milk chick—HEY!” He grabbed Ford's arm; he'd started walking toward the house. “I said this is private property, and you need to leave!”

“You might need to leave first,” Ford said. He held up a bulky device in his hands so Fiddleford could see the screen. “I'm not sure if you know what this is, but –”

“A Mel EMF Meter with Temperature and Range Recorder."

“I – yes, how did you –”

Fiddleford set his face in what he hoped was an intimidating glare. “Doesn't matter how I know. Now kindly vacate the premises.”

“You don't understand! It's showing no less than seven areas where there is a severe drop in temperature! This is a strong indicator of paranormal activity! And even if they're all low-level ghosts, they're probably feeding off of your energy.”

He blinked. “'Scuse me?”

“Ghosts feed off of the energy of the living,” Ford said. “Not always – there are plenty of cases where a spirit's energy can sustain itself – but my experiments have proven that ghosts become stronger when they can feed off of the emotions of the living. Especially strong emotions. That's why people often associate teenagers with poltergeist activity. Ghosts are often attracted to those with very powerful emotions. In fact, your own strong emotions may be what attracted so many ghosts here in the first place!” He leaned forward eagerly. “Tell me, have you noticed any particular surge of supernatural phenomena when you felt unusually joyful or angry or –”

“ _No_ ,” Fiddleford said sharply. His hands were shaking. “I've never – nothing – this is none of your affair and this isn't your property. Now if you're not going to listen to niceties, then fine, but get off my land!” His patience snapped and he started shoving Ford back towards his car.

“Nerd fight!” Stan grinned and hoisted his camera. “Now we'll finally get some decent ratings! _Fight, fight, fight!_ ”

Ford dug in his heels. “You don't understand! The readings alone are enough to indicate that there are at least three Category Ten ghosts on the premises! Since ghosts feed on the living energy, they'll have to stay close by! If they're around you and one of them becomes agitated –”

“ _LIKE THIS?!_ ”

The ghostly voice echoed all around them as a roar filled the air. The family tractor shot around the barn, its massive engine thundering so loudly Fiddleford's teeth vibrated. It skidded on the dirt like a monster truck, turned to face Stan and Ford, and revved its engine.

Fiddleford swallowed. _Oh, no._.

“ _HYAAAAAAH!_ ”

Angie's voice was nearly lost under the cacophony of engine and gravel as the tractor zoomed towards the city-slickers. Fiddleford dove to the side. The ground shook as the mammoth vehicle churned dirt less than a yard from his feet. He looked up, coughing, as it braked hard and spun, this time aiming for the two men's car.

“Alright, alright, we're goin'!” Stan shouted. The tractor gave a screech and gunned its engine. “AGH! SIXER GET IN THE CAR!”

Fiddleford scrambled back, coughing through the dust, as Stan grabbed Ford by the back of the shirt and all but threw him in the vehicle. They were driving back down the road in seconds, chased by a tractor whose engine sounded a lot like cackling laughter.

A sigh came next to his ear. “So that's where she went,” came a voice. Harper. “Sorry, bro. Meant to get here sooner.”

“It's fine.” Fiddleford stood, breathing heavily as the air slowly settled around him. The tractor came trundling back and rolled to a stop in front of him. A very faint outline of a young girl poked out from the engine, her once-blonde hair floating around her face. It was easier to see her now that the light was beginning to fade. She grinned impishly.

“Didja see me, Fiddleford? A _tractor!_ ”

“Young lady that was NOT the plan!”

All three of them flinched. Ma and Pa flew right through the barn, both of their faces silver with anger. Bass wasn't far behind, and Lute phased through the barn a moment later, looking winded.

“What happened?” he demanded. “What did I miss?”

“We have visitors,” Ma said shortly. “And your sister thought it wise to make a show of force at them. In front of a _camera._ ”

Angie ducked her head.

Pa rubbed his forehead. Fiddleford could see the pattern of his flannel shirt as his chest expanded and deflated; even in death, his father would often take deep breaths to help him calm down. After a minute Pa raised his head. Fiddleford saw the silver wound just beneath his collar and quickly looked away.

“Angie,” Pa said sternly, “You know the rules. Our job is only to maintain the farm and look after your brother. You are not to engage with living folk – _especially_ outside folk. The Sprotts were bad enough! City slickers like them would turn this place into a – a _tourist trap!_ ”

“The horror!” Bass said, but subsided when Pa glared at him.

“It would be a horror. You remember the Sprotts. You remember what happened the last time there was so much human emotion concentrated in one area. Fiddleford nearly –” Pa moved to put a hand on Fiddleford's shoulder, forgot that he no longer could, and phased his hand right through his back. He shivered. “Oh – sorry, son.”

“It's alright, Pa,” he said quietly.

“Why don't we all go inside,” Ma said, watching her living son closely. “You're looking a bit peaky, dear. Just because you're still alive doesn't mean you should work yourself to death.”

“Lute and I will finish with the hay,” Bass volunteered. “Oh, stop it,” he said, when Lute glared at him. “It'll do you good to get away from the horses now and then.”

“Angie will help you,” Ma called loudly, and there was a groan from the other side of the tractor. “And don't think that'll be the last of your punishment, young lady! The three of you will be done in no time, anyhow. Bass, you make sure they behave, then the three of you join us in the house. We need to discuss what to do in case those two city boys come back.”

 

“We're gonna go back, aren't we.”

“Of course!”

Ford heard his brother snort. Stan had driven them halfway back to town before the tractor stopped chasing them. Stan was ready to keep driving, but Ford insisted they pull over. He wanted to return to the farm as soon as possible – which meant as soon as he had made a few modifications to his EMP emitter. It was currently sitting on his lap, half-dismantled as he worked on it.

Stan glanced at the device. “Look, Sixer, I want ratings gold as much as the next shmuck. Mostly because ratings gold can eventually become _actual_ gold. But unless you're workin' on something that can take down a tractor, I ain't goin' back.”

He waved a hand. “Nonsense, there's no way even a Category 10 ghost like that has enough energy to power a tractor twice in one day!”

“Thought you said there were multiple ghosts.”

“Mmm.” There were two more wires he had to connect to keep the EMP from shorting out. “You know...I was surprised that the farmer, what's his name –”

“Fiddledork.”

“Fiddleford. He knew what my equipment was.” Ford finished connecting two wires together and paused. “He even understood the range extender I'd modified it with. I never expected to find anyone out here who was so well-acquainted with technological advancements.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you're just two nerdbots in a pod. You study ghosts and he lives with 'em. Get a haunted room already.”

Ford replaced the panel over the wires and screwed it shut. “There! I've modified the EMP emitter to include several frequencies of radio waves. This should stop any ghost in a twenty-foot radius, no matter what object it is currently inhabiting!”

“Twenty feet sounds good.”

“I've even connected it to the battery in my XML high-power searchlight, so it should last for a full seventy-two seconds!”

“That sounds less good. Also, that's not gonna do squat against a gun, and I'm pretty sure I saw one leanin' against the porch.”

Ford looked at him, surprised. “There was? How did you notice that?”

“You pick up a few things when you've stolen an ancient text to sell on the black market and the previous owner sends a golem after you.”

“I don't remember any golem.”

“I don't tell you everything.” Stan popped his chair back upright. “Point is, I'd rather go back there without rilin' up that skinny noodle guy. For all we know, he's the reason his family's floatin' two feet off the floor in the first place.”

“I doubt that. The ghost that came after us seemed unusually defensive and only attacked us, not Fiddleford.”

“Okay, but Fiddlenerd seemed just as defensive about them. Plus, you know, gun.”

“You're right,” Ford mused. “Clearly, we must wait until darkness falls and Fiddleford is sound asleep. Ghosts are much easier to see at night anyway, and I can test out my Full Spectrum Night Vision goggles at the same time! I can't wait to study and potentially interact with six or more Category 10 ghosts!”

“...Are you sure you're the smart twin?”

“I'm not the one who stole from a golem.”

“Touche.”

 

The rest of the evening had not gone well.

Ma went with Violynn and Harper to keep watch on the road. Pa confined Angie and Lute to the barn to keep them out of trouble. Bass was trying to help Fiddleford chop wood; as Fiddleford swung down, Bass added extra power to the swing, making the chore a good deal easier. But it was still difficult for Fiddleford to concentrate.

“ _Ghosts feed off of the energy of the living._ ”

That didn't have to mean anything. Fiddleford never felt tired or drained.

“ _Ghosts are often attracted to those with very powerful emotions!_ ”

His grief had been powerful, of course. Powerful and terrible. But his family hadn't even shown up until fourteen months after their death! Surely if they'd fed off of emotions, they would have been able to make themselves known much sooner.

“ _In fact, your own strong emotions may be what attracted so many ghosts here in the first pla– ”_

“OW!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Bass said quickly. Fiddleford had been chopping wood when the ax had bounced back and hit him on the chin, hard. “I think that was me. I must've overcharged my downswing, or something.”

“It's fine,” Fiddleford said, holding his face. His eyes watered with pain. “I'm going to get some ice.”

He headed for the house. He could hear his brother putting things away behind him. Normally Bass wouldn't have the strength to do it, but maybe with Fiddleford all worked up...

No, no. He was overthinking things. Bass was just getting used to his ghost powers, like Angie.

His Ma saw him walking toward the house and flew over to him.

“Oh, dear, what happened?”

“Got in a fight with the ax,” Fiddleford said, wincing. “Just need some ice.” He headed through the front door. Ma phased through the wall, still floating next to him.

“I'll get it for you, Fiddleford. Just wait in the living room.”

“Ma, it's fine. I'm not going to do anything.”

But when he went to step into the kitchen, a strange pressure on his chest forced him to step back, as if the air had solidified.

“Ma!”

She floated past him. “Sorry, dear, but that's the rule. No kitchen for you. Now go to the living room. I'll get the ice and start your dinner.”

He sighed. It was no use arguing with Ma, everyone knew that. “Okay. Then I'm going to bring in the horses. I let Carla and Cinnamon out earlier, and this way they'll get to eat dinner while I eat dinner.”

“Alright, but ask Lute to come inside. Bass said he's been runnin' with them again, and I need to have a word before he takes things too far and spooks 'em.”

“Yes, Ma.”

Ma floated a bag of ice out of the freezer and he took it, then turned and headed back out. By now, the sky had softened to periwinkle with the coming twilight, casting a dusty glow over the muted colors of the farm. It was pretty enough to be a picture on a postcard, as his Pa often said, but it meant he had to hurry. Horses had better-than-average night vision, but they couldn't see well at dusk.

The pastures were behind the house, on either side of the orchard. There was more than enough room for the horses in just one pasture, especially now that he'd had to sell Tuesday and Daisy. But most days he still kept the mares in the left pasture and his gelding, Jesse, in the right, just out of habit.

He skirted around the orchard behind the house to the left pasture. To his surprise, Carla and her filly had been grazing in the middle of the field, calm as you please, with Lute nowhere in sight.

_I hope he's not trying to ride poor Jesse again. That horse is too old for Lute' tricks._

He gave a whistle. Carla's head bobbed up, but she didn't move.

He grinned and reached into his pocket with his free hand. “I don't suppose you're susceptible to bribery...?”

Immediately she trotted over, her foal tagging along at her heels. Fiddleford laughed and gave each of them a sugar cube – he always had a couple on him for just such an occasion.

He'd fitted on their bridles when Bass showed up.

“Need any help?” he asked, carefully keeping his distance.

“No, thank you,” Fiddleford said, eyeing the horses. Not one of them had gotten used to ghosts, and they all knew it.

Bass winced at his chin. “I really am sorry.”

Fiddleford opened his mouth to say it was nothing. Instead what came out was, “Did it happen because you were reacting to me?”

Bass blinked. “Reac...what?”

“One of the city-slickers here earlier was a ghost hunter. He said spirits feed off the emotions of the living.” _And can even be attracted to them._

Bass frowned in thought. Fiddleford couldn't tell if he was doing it on purpose, but his brother's face was blurry and difficult to read. “I...don't know. I always know where you are, and when your emotions are stronger, I can sense you more easily. But I don't know about that feeding bit.” He shrugged. “Honestly, I was just careless. I wasn't paying as close attention as I should've been, and I hurt my brother. Maybe I'm still getting used to what I can do now, that's all.”

Fiddleford nodded slowly. That's what he'd thought, too.

“You sure you don't need any help?”

“Well...you could take Angie out of the barn for me, so she doesn't spook the horses. Is she still sulking over earlier?”

Bass grinned. “Try gloating. Although she's smart enough not to do it when Pa's around. You'd think she'd claimed viking heritage and come back on her first raid.”

Fiddleford's mouth quirked up in a grin. “Least she didn't blow up the engine this time.”

“No, but you'll love this – she says she should be _allowed_ to keep drivin' the tractor. Says that'll teach her how all the little engine bits move so she can fix your car.”

“If she fixes my car I'll sell it as a weapon of mass incineration.”

They laughed and Bass flew off to extract Angie from the barn. Fiddleford couldn't help but smile to himself. Fending off those city-slickers left him jumpy and tired at the same time, and he was hoping to heaven they wouldn't come back. But it was the most excitement they'd had for a while, and his sister had always loved a good adventure.

He brought the horses in, brushed them down a bit, and checked their water before giving them their dinner. Then he went out to get Jesse. By now it was fully twilight, and he was kicking himself for taking so long. But the horse was waiting at the pasture gate, and Fiddleford gave him his last sugar cube just for being so patient.

Pa was scaring a raccoon off the vegetable cage when Fiddleford approached the barn.

“You'll need to fix the wire in the corner, son,” Pa said, scowling at the retreating ringed tail. “And your Ma said to tell you that dinner's ready.”

“Thanks, Pa. Hey, have you seen Lute? He wasn't out in either pasture.”

Pa looked up. “No, I haven't. Bass! Angie! You seen your brother?”

“No, Pa,” they chorused, sticking their heads out of the tractor's engine.

“I told you two to stay away from that thing!”

“We're just _looking_ ,” Angie said innocently.

“Well, go look for your brother and let's head inside. We still pray together as a family, even if only one of us can eat.”

At the mention of eating, Jesse started chewing Fiddleford's hair. He laughed.

“Alright, alright! Pa, I'll be in in a minute, I just have to get Jesse his supper.” He made to move towards the barn.

Suddenly a loud voice behind him shouted, “Pa, look – I'M RIDING!”

Pa's face went slack with horror. Fiddleford spun around as Jesse reared, yanking the rope from his hand, Lute clinging to Jesse's back. The horse screamed with terror, its front hooves slicing the air.

It happened in slow motion. Pa was yelling, leaping forward, forgetting he could fly. Lute' eyes widened as he realized Fiddleford was directly in the path of the spooked horse. Fiddleford started to move his feet – he had to run, he had to run – and then one of Jesse's hooves lashed out like a comet and struck. A blinding agony pierced his skull.

The world went black.

 

Ford was too excited to rest. So while Stan reclined in the driver's seat, snoring, Ford took his journal out of his jacket and began reviewing his notes.

The townsfolk had already mentioned that the entire McGucket family save one had died under mysterious circumstances.

 _What circumstances?_ he wrote. _How does this affect their manifestation as ghosts? Why are they still at the farm?_

That was an interesting question all by itself. He knew ghosts generally suffered geographic confinement; numerous ghosts were seen only within certain areas, and these seemed to be trapped at their former place of residence – the tractor had started to sputter and die when it reached what appeared to be the boundaries of the property.

But ghosts did not necessarily need to stay in the mortal plane. They did so only when they had unfinished business.

Could they be preying on Fiddleford? Sucking his energy while he slept? Perhaps there was only one Category 10 ghost, and the rest were Category 5s. But Category 5s drained their victims in a manner of weeks. Fiddleford had survived for far longer.

Perhaps they had a new feeding method! Or could exist in a state of semi-hibernation, allowing them to survive on far less energy! If so, perhaps all ghosts could hibernate, which would explain why some people would visit a haunted location time and again while never seeing a thing – while others witnessed extraordinary paranormal activity!

Ford swiftly wrote down his ideas about hibernation when another idea occurred to him. The Category 10 that had come after them must have used a great deal of Fiddleford's energy. What if that used up any emotional reserves he might have had left? What if tonight, when the ghosts on the property began to feed, Fiddleford wouldn't survive?

_We have to act. Now!_

Ford snapped the journal shut and reached for his brother, opening his mouth to call out to him –

“ _GOIN' OFF THE RAILS ON A CRAZY TRAIN!_ ”

“AGH!”

Ford jumped as the radio blared. Stan bolted upright so hard his head cracked against the car roof.

“WHAT HAPPENED!? WHAT!”

“ _YOU GOTTA LISTEN TO MY WORDS, YEAH, YEAH!_ ”

“The radio!” Ford shouted, clapping his hands his ears. “It just turned on at full blast!”

“Shut it off, geez!”

Ford started to reach for it, then stopped. “Wait, Stan! I think it's a message!”

“ _YOU GOTTA LISTEN TO MY WORDS, YEAH, YEAH!_ ”

“WHAT?!”

“Listen!”

The same line repeated over and over, but underneath he could hear another voice. Young, feminine, familiar.

Stan stared at the radio. “You gotta be kiddin' me.”

“Hang on!” Ford grabbed his voice recorder from under his seat and a handful of wires from the EMP emitter. With a few quick movements he plugged the recorder into the radio, shut off the music, and turned on the recorder.

“– hear me, please!”

“We can hear you!” Ford said.

“Yeah and you owe me big for almost mowin' down my car!” Stan barked.

“Forget the car! My brother – one of the dead ones – scared a horse and it hit Fiddleford in the head. He's bleeding so badly and we can't even walk him to the house because Pa said our energies might mess up his brain! _Please!_ ”

“For the record, I still hate you,” Stan said. Then he turned the key and slammed the gas, yanking the steering wheel hard to the left. The car swung a U-turn and peeled down the road, leaving the smell of burned rubber in their wake.

Ford gripped the car door. “Wait, wait! We can't treat a head injury!”

The recorder crackled. “You have to help! After that thing with the Sprotts they cut our landline, and even if I _could_ call 911, you know nobody from town would ever set foot here!”

“Well gee I wonder why!” Stan snapped.

“We're on our way,” Ford said. “Keep him calm, don't let him move around too much.”

“I know, just hurry!”

It was full dark when they reached the boundary of the farm. From their angle they could see the house with the barn behind it. There was a bright, clear glow emanating from behind the barn, and as Ford watched part of the glow flew up and swooped closer. When it reached their car its shape condensed into that of a young woman, her hair streaming out behind her, her face tight with worry.

“Thank goodness. We managed to put the horse away. Fiddleford's behind the barn.”

“I'm still gonna kill you later for mulching my car,” Stan grumbled.

“You can mulch me yourself as long as you save my brother.”

Stan didn't bother parking in front of the house this time. He followed the ghost around the barn, the tires churning up dust and gravel. Six other ghosts floated a few feet above the ground, their forms crystal-clear against the black of the night, their faces drawn with fear and worry.

At their center, struggling to rise, was Fiddleford.

Ford leaped out of the car before it had properly stopped. “Stan, get the first aid kit!” he called, sprinting towards them. “Fiddleford! Stop moving! St – oh _Sagan_.”

The ground behind Fiddleford was streaked with thick stripes of dark red blood. It seemed as though he'd fallen several yards away and had been trying to crawl towards the house. There was more blood on his shirt, soaking the front and left shoulder. He was lying on his side, trying to prop himself up with his arms. When he pushed up, in the light of the ghosts, Ford saw that the entire left side of his head was colored with crimson.

Ford reached him just as Fiddleford's arm gave out. He caught him awkwardly, the other man's face hitting his arm. Ford braced himself, expecting a cry of pain, until he realized Fiddleford was mumbling under his breath.

“Fiddleford?”

“L'p vruub,” Fiddleford muttered. “L'p vruub, l'p vruub...”

“Fiddleford, get ahold of yourself! You're not making any sense!” He looked up at the oldest pair of ghosts. “How long has he been like this? What are his symptoms?”

“We don't know, he isn't answering us,” the woman said. “He was unconscious – we think – for about five minutes, then it seemed like he was dreaming or just going in and out of awareness. I couldn't tell if he recognized us. I think he's been trying to go home...” Her voice broke.

Stan's footsteps approached from behind him. “Okay, I got the – aw, _hell_.”

“Forget the first aid kit, he needs a hospital. Clear the backseat of the car, we're taking him to town.”

“You can't!” the man cried. “You don't know what those people are like, what they've done to Fiddleford since we've been gone!”

“What d'you mean?” Stan demanded. “Didn't you drive them off with rabid tractors or something?”

“We weren't even here the first year after our deaths!”

Ford blinked. “You – what? You weren't?”

“No. We'd crossed over and he faced all of it alone. The grief – the townsfolk – we didn't even _know_ about it until –” He broke off with a shudder.

Stan snapped his fingers. “Yeah, okay, hi. Can we save the sob stuff for later, because the guy looks half-dead already and this ain't helping.”

Ford nodded. “Right. We'll need a long thick blanket to use as a stretcher. Definitely ice. Someone needs to unlock the house for us and show us where to put him. Stan, can you sweet _Sagan!_ ”

Fiddleford had gone limp, then suddenly began twitching violently. His elbow jerked and he caught Ford in the chin.

“Lay him down, lay him down!”

“I know!”

“His side!”

“I _know!_ ”

“Someone get a – forget it, I'll just use a piece of your trench coat –”

“Fiddleford, honey, please –”

“I've got the blanket!”

“Don't move him yet, wait until –”

“One of you talk to him, try to get him to focus on you. Stan, help me get him on the blanket. One, two, _three_...”

 

Fiddleford seized three more times before they even made it to the house. Ford timed them carefully. Each seizure lasted about three seconds, but any seizure at all did not bode well. The fourth one happened as they were carrying him into the living room on their makeshift stretcher, and his eyes opened to reveal a right pupil the size of a dime. Ford was on the verge of suggesting the hospital again when he caught a look at the parents' faces. His voice died in his throat.

Ford and his brother worked through the night. Ford cleaned Fiddleford's wound as gently as he could, but even the barest touch brought a soundless cry of pure pain. Stan checked him for other injuries. They guessed that his left arm might be sprained, given how much it had swollen; Fiddleford had no doubt tried to use it to cushion his fall when he was struck. They kept Fiddleford wrapped in blankets, with a bucket and a washcloth handy for vomit or further seizures, and rotated several more damp clothes on his forehead to lower the swelling. Fiddleford had lost enough blood so that his complexion was paper-white, but they didn't dare risk giving him fluids when he could hardly stay conscious long enough to open his eyes.

Ford got to know the ghosts very intimately that night. He learned their names, listened while they spoke to their son and brother, trying to keep him from slipping into the void. He heard stories about Fiddleford's interest in technology, the first time he'd read a comic book, the last time they'd taken a vacation to the beach. Lute told a story about the first time the two of them had ridden horses together. Lute had broken down crying halfway through and apologized over and over.

It was past dawn and well into the next morning when Fiddleford took a turn for the better. Ford was changing his washcloth when Fiddleford opened his eyes and looked straight into Ford's. His pupils were much closer in size, and when Ford moved slightly, Fiddleford's eyes followed him.

“Fiddleford? It's Ford. The, er...ghost hunter from earlier...”

His eyes rolled and he closed them, but struggled to speak. “Fah...”

“Yes, Ford.”

Fiddleford tried to speak again but hissed, the lines around his eyes drawing tight with pain.

“Can you open your eyes? Can you follow my finger?”

Fiddleford forced his eyes open. He tried to follow Ford's finger but his eyes slid away, then closed.

He heard the front door open and Stan walked in, a heavy blanket thrown over one shoulder. “How is he?”

“Lucid, barely. I think we can let him sleep at this point.”

“Good.” He dropped the blanket to the floor. “There. That's for you. Get some shut-eye while you can.”

“What? No, no, I can't.”

“You've been awake for 28 hours straight! Don't think I don't know you didn't nap in the car.”

“Nonsense, I was awake longer than this when I disproved Einstein's theory of relativity.”

“Yeah and by the end you thought can openers were the key to ending world hunger.”

Ford got to his feet, stretching and trying to ignore the ache in his back. “I need to go to town and get some supplies. Can you watch Fiddleford for me until I get back? I left a list of questions to ask him if he happens to wake up, so we can assess his condition. And he's sleeping now, but he might need –”

“I know, already, quit worryin'. Where are all the floaty guys?”

“They went to...'milk the chickens', I believe?”

Stan smirked and tossed Ford the keys. “Whatever. Drive safe.”

Ford nodded and headed out. He thought he saw a pocket of air shifting over by the barn and waved to it. Part of him wanted to drop everything he was doing and at least set up his recording equipment. But if Fiddleford's condition was any indication, there would be plenty of time for that later while they helped him heal. The man didn't look like he'd be in any condition to run a farm any time soon, so he and Stan might have to do it for him. It was fair recompense, he supposed, for the opportunity to monitor so many high-level ghosts at close range.

But he'd still have to be careful. If nothing else, the patriarch of the ghostly clan had implied that Fiddleford had endured a great deal of trauma at the hands of the townsfolk. He and Stan would have to work at earning the ghosts' trust. Helping run the farm would serve that purpose, as well.

He smiled to himself. His brother as a farmhand. Who would ever have imagined that?

 

_Fiddleford stumbled into the kitchen. His ankle gave under him and he fell to his hands and knees, his palms smearing soot across the tile. The laughter rang in his ears._

_“Please,” he gasped._

_One arm folded under him and his head hit the floor. Something was wrong with the light. The world was all dark and the light was black. He couldn't remember the color of his mother's hair or Angie's freckles._

_“Please,” he begged again. Tears streamed down his face and a terrible pressure built in his chest. “Ma, Pa...please, please, please, please...” The pressure was unbearable. Like a stone that grew with every second, forcing him to the ground, crushing him from the inside. He could hardly breathe._

_His eyes landed on the butcher block_.

_He forced his arms back under him and crawled to the counter. His arm trembled from the effort but he forced it up until he grabbed the handle of the lowest blade. His strength gave out and his shoulder slammed against the cupboard, knocking over the block – but the knife was in his hand._

_“Wait for me,” he whispered. “Ma, Pa, everyone...wait for me. I'm coming.”_

_He raised the knife._

_Then, all at once, they came._

 

Stan was flicking through the TV channels when a soft animal noise reached his ears. He glanced over in time to see the nerdling open his eyes.

“'Bout time. You hungry? I can make broth. Also Ford left me this list of questions to ask when you woke up.” He patted around the floor and finally pulled the paper out from the empty vomit bowl. “Okay. First question: 'Do you have a headache?' Oh for the love of – let's just skip to question two. 'Do you remember sustaining your injury?'” He waited, then finally glanced up. “Hey, I said...uh...”

Tears were sliding silently down Fiddledork's face, running into his ears.

“I'm still here?” he whispered.

Stan snorted. “You and me both. Welcome back to Middle of Nowhere, U.S.A.” He started to turn back to the list, then something clicked in Stan's mind. He turned back. “The hell do you mean, you're still here?”

Fiddleford didn't say anything. Just stared up at the ceiling. His body was all loose limbs like a rag doll's, and his face was pale as paper, but his eyes burned with a kind of dark agony.

Stan swallowed. “Well, _shit_.”

Fiddleford closed his eyes.

“Great. That's just perfect. You wanna go join the world's worst ghost convention. You'd just be hoeing hay or whatever for the rest of your afterlife. And even if you didn't, it's not like your family could cross over with you!”

He winced and mumbled something.

“What?”

“They...they _did_ cross over. I'm the only reason they came back and got trapped here.”

Stan went still. “You heard that?”

His eyes were still closed and his voice cracked. “I...after it happened...after my family gone...I kept forgetting it had ever happened at all. I'd cry so hard I fell asleep – in the barn, on the porch – anywhere – and I'd wake up and for one second I'd expect to see Ma through the window makin' muffins, or Angie runnin' up with another lizard from the orchard, or Pa –” His throat closed up and there was a weird bubbling noise in his chest.

“Whoa!”

Stan dove for the bucket and got it under Fiddlenerd's chin just in time for him to twist violently and vomit into it, shaking and sweating and retching until nothing was coming up but bile. The cool cloth fell off his forehead and landed in the bucket with a wet plop.

“Ew. Okay, yeah, you gotta calm down. You got a concussion and stress'll make it worse.”

Fiddleford let out a high-pitched noise somewhere between a sob and a scream. He slumped forward and Stan caught his shoulder before he could roll of the sofa.

“Hey, seriously –”

“Emotions,” Fiddleford gasped. His hair was damp with sweat and his eyes were wild. “He said it, didn't he? Ford? That ghosts were attracted to strong emotions. My whole family was dead. I wanted them back, I wanted them _back_ , so badly it was killing me. They knew it, they could feel it from wherever they were. But they couldn't cross back over. Plain grief wasn't strong enough. But they were watching, that day when I went to the kitchen, and – and I – I grabbed a kni –” He broke off with a harsh choking noise and dry-heaved until he was gasping for breath.

By now Stan had pushed himself up to sit next to Fiddleford, one arm still solid around the nerd's twiggy shoulders, the other holding the bowl under his chin. He sat there and waited until the guy wore himself out and his shirt was damp with sweat. His hands were shaking so badly Stan could feel it through the couch. He hung his head, sandy brown hair dangerously close to the bucket, trembling and gasping in silent sobs.

Stan waited until he was sure Fiddleford was done throwing up. Then he put the bucket on the coffee table and gently pulled the nerd back against the sofa, so he could rest his head on the sofa's back.

“There ya go, kid. Deep breaths.”

Fiddleford kept his eyes closed, but tears still streamed down his cheeks. His face twisted in grief and anguish. “I – ca – _can't_ –”

“Well not if you're still talking, you can't.”

“My family – they – as soon as I – had the – the knife – they came back. They're tra – trapped here. It's my – my fault – all my – fault –”

Stan sighed, reached over, and pinched the nerd's nose. His eyes flew open and he yelped.

“No more talking, huh? Just shut up and breathe.”

Stan let go of his nose. The nerd stared up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly as more tears slid down his cheeks, but he kept quiet. His breathing was ragged, but it slowly began to even out.

“There ya go. Look, my brother's the ghost expert of the century. If your family's actually trapped here, I'm sure he can figure out a loophole or something. Alright? And in the meantime, that hottie sister of yours – yeah I can call her a hottie, you're too limp-noodle-armed to be intimidating – she seems plenty pleased to be hauntin' the place, so it's not like they're miserable here. She hot-wired a friggin' _tractor_. If that doesn't have fun written all over it, I don't know what does!”

Fiddleford didn't say anything, just pressed his hands to his face, shoulders still shaking.

Stan sighed. “'Kay, let's do this. I'ma lay you back down, you're gonna stay put, and then when you're all healed up and still want to kill yourself I'll just beat it out of you all over again, okay?”

Fiddleford let out a weird puffy air noise that might've been a laugh. And then he did it again, and Stan realized he was snoring.

“Wh– OI! Are you actually _asleep?!_ ”

He jostled Fiddledork a little, but the guy just kept snoring.

Stan grunted with exasperation, stood up, and dumped the nerd unceremoniously back on the sofa. He snored on.

“Unbelievable. I'm pourin' my heart out in an inspirational speech, here! You're lucky you've got a head injury as an excuse, ya skinny –”

“Is he awake yet?”

“AAH!”

He spun around. Angie's torso had popped through the TV screen, making it flicker oddly and sending sparks of lightning up through the outline of her body, like that weird orb thing Ford once had.

He glared at her. “Bug off, ya friggin' lightning bug!”

She glared back. “Get lost, ya lawnmower lunch! I asked if he was awake!”

“You just missed him,” Stan said, grudgingly impressed with her bad attitude. “Where's my brother?”

“He still hasn't come back. I told you, nobody from town's come up here after that Sprotts guy tried to zap us.” She came all the way out of the television and floated in the middle of the room, looking down at her brother anxiously. “Fiddleford was furious, you know. They went after me first. I nearly died – like, _ended_. Pa used his rage to fuel his powers. It was...pretty terrifying.”

Stan grunted.

She glared at him again. “I'm not feeding on him _now_ , if that's what you're thinking! And you better take care of him or I'll – I'll scratch up the interior of your car so bad it'll look like a litter of cats used it as a scratching post!”

“You can try,” Stan retorted. “That baby's got anti-ghost wards drawn all over the interior. Now get lost. Go do whatever ghosts are supposed to do after they've died. Ford and I aren't going to leave a nerd this stupid by himself.”

She sniffed. “How do I know we can trust –”

The front door banged open. “Stan!” Ford's voice called, sounding out of breath. “Is he awake yet? I couldn't get the paramedics to come, but I managed to obtain some supplies!”

Angie scowled. “This isn't the end of it, Buster Brown,” she said, and zoomed backward into the wall.

Ford appeared at the living room doorway a moment later. His hair was disheveled and his arms were loaded with brown paper bags, all lumpy with mystery medical junk.

“Here, I've got seven kinds of painkillers and several anti-nausea...Sweet Sagan he looks uncomfortable!”

Stan glanced down. He'd let Fiddlesticks flop onto his side, head bent chin to chest, arms and legs in all different directions. He shrugged.

“'S probably fine.”

“Well, lay him flat on his back would you?” Ford asked, dumping his load on the coffee table. “And – ugh, that is disgusting. Also probably a bad sign. Luckily I predicted as much and bought several weeks of canned food while I was in town. I'm sorry, Stanley, but it looks like we may need to stay a while, at least until he wakes up.”

Stan smirked. “An opportunity to study a haunted estate up close. You must be devastated.”

His brother had already buried his head in a paper back and was digging through it. “Yes, yes, very delightful,” he mumbled distractedly. “Help me find the thermometer, would you? If he spikes a temperature we may need to give him antibiotics. Do you know how to work the stove? It's gas and the last time I tried to cook on one the meat exploded. Wait, I wonder if the presence of ghosts will affect meat temperatures. On second thought, could you film me cooking? I might make the meat explode anyway, so we'll both have to cook, and Fiddleford, too, when he wakes up, so we have a decent sample size for comparison – I'm sorry, Stan, could you run back out to the car? I left my thermometer on the back seat –”

“Slow down already,” Stan said, rolling his eyes. “And let's take it slow with the experiments, huh? The guy just got beaned by a horse.”

“Right, right, now where was that disinfectant.”

Stan shook his head and went back out the door. He had a lot to think about, but it wasn't his style to overthink things too much – that was Ford's department. The bottom line, as far as he was concerned, was that they weren't gonna leave that skinny little noodle alone.

Plus, filming that hot ghost chick was going to be ratings _gold._

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAANGST!
> 
> Once again the McGucket OCs belong to thelastspeecher (HeidiMelone)!
> 
> Many thanks and cookies to Nour386, who not only came up with this AU, but even beta'd this whole fic and offered so many encouraging and constructive comments. Nour, thank you so much for the inspiration and support! You rock!! \^,^/


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